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Writing Wendl...

I really did want to write a light-hearted tale in case this one turns out to be my last novel (assuming it yet becomes a novel), but it's headed currently toward the shadows. I thought I knew Wendl Von Trier pretty well, having trekked with him through my previous book, The Winged Child .   There, Wendl presents as an elusive solitary, moving above all worldly fray while at the same time nudging events and characters toward a satisfactory conclusion. Sharp and intimidating on the outside and tender and motherly on the inside. A friend to the world, something of a trickster, but in all things working for good outcomes.  That is how I saw Wendl VonTrier. A  púka, mischievous, but essentially harmless, even benevolent, capable of presenting in whatever form or gender the moment required. Wendl seemed the ideal candidate to carry readers off into the literary sunset in good spirits after an exhilarating romp through a fantastical fiction. But all along, it seems, there were depths to

There she goes...

After two years of writing, unwriting, rewriting, revising, tinkering, tweaking, Millicent McTeer's manuscript has flown away to Publisher. Editing on The Winged Child, I've been informed, begins this week. While I await Editor's opening salvo, I have a few free days to bake bread, clean floors, do some winter garden chores, maybe even write a poem.

At this point, it is no longer my novel, is at the mercy of strangers, subject to who knows what manner and degree of editorial predations. After editing and publication, Readers will re-write it in their heads. People will describe the book to me and I won't recognize it.

I'm sorry, Millicent. I couldn't help myself.

Henry's books.


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